


Here With Me

by shotgunsinlace



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Crying, Docking, Fluff, Frottage, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-27
Updated: 2015-09-27
Packaged: 2018-04-23 16:17:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4883470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shotgunsinlace/pseuds/shotgunsinlace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Words have been scarce since crawling out of the Atlantic and making the trip to Europe. Not a lot has happened since then, although a lot has to. In the end, Will decides on closing the space after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Here With Me

**Author's Note:**

> Totally not beta read.

They fell together like they fell for each other: endlessly.

Even with feet firmly on the ground, unblemished layers of sand caving under their shared weight, they continue to plummet. 

Down, down, down they go. Where to stop? Neither of them knows.

But the sensation of falling becomes frozen when time stretches on. It becomes a static knowledge at the back of their heads, that they’ll eventually hit the rocks, necks snapped and bodies mangled. The Atlantic will carry away the traces of their blood, feed them to the sharks whose sole nature is to hunger.

Until then, this will do. A perpetual pause of all clocks, granting them a moment. 

A moment is all they need. 

Since that day at Jack’s office, his life has been composed of moments banal and fatalistic alike. A cup of coffee, a snide remark, fevers and seizures, a glass of wine, the tucking of a curl of hair behind the ear, friends on fire, a kiss before the fireplace, jail cells, homecomings, a dead daughter, a golden church, a fairy-tale castle, gentle smiles before a painting, bonesaws to his head, a farewell in the snow, three years to make him realize, the slaying of a dragon.

All of those moments both spontaneous and orchestrated, all of them encased within a glass he can press his fingers up against but cannot escape. Doesn’t _want_ to escape.

“Night is more than a period of time; it’s another place,” Will quotes, dredging up that memory from so many years ago. This here is another moment he’ll covet within the pocket over his heart, the image of Hannibal sitting on the edge of the bottom bunk. “We’re different from who we are during the day.”

Assimilation is a difficult task when a perfectly composed Hannibal has always been what’s faced him, all the way up until that night in Baltimore. The downward spiral that followed fits like a fever dream within his hollowed bones, a fabricated tale. Afterwards he had seen Hannibal’s wrath, his sorrow, his ugliness, and jealousy; the light behind his eyes that spoke of humor and the sheer adoration as they held each other over the bluff.

It’s one thing to see and another to experience, like theory versus practice. Will has seen and felt Hannibal via micro-expressions and cunning words, but never quite like this.

“Little more hidden, little less seen,” he says, standing by the cabin door and debating whether or not he should close the distance between them.

“When life is most like a dream,” Hannibal answers, back slumped to not knock his head against the top bunk.

“Our life would make no sense if it weren’t like a dream.” Life and not lives. They’re no longer two separate entities. “Or a nightmare.”

Hannibal inclines his head in acquiescence and doesn’t reply.

On the other side of the cabin window, Slovakia drifts by. Moonlight spills in, making shadows dance in the tiny quarters they share and along the sharp angles of Hannibal’s face. Will doesn’t mention the tear streaks he sees, although his chest grows heavy at not knowing what caused them.

The last time he saw Hannibal cry, he had taken a knife to Will’s stomach, had slit Abigail’s throat and walked out, leaving them behind.

Words have been scarce since crawling out of the Atlantic and making the trip to Europe. Not a lot has happened since then, although a lot has to. The current that carried them has changed and it would be foolish to ignore it, or else risk being dragged out past the point of navigation.

In the end, Will decides on closing the space after all.

He sits next to Hannibal, thighs almost touching but not quite. Neither talk for a long time, and Will watches the moonlight move across the carpeted floor, interrupted by the skeletal trees that line the train tracks outside.

Accepting Hannibal means accepting this, too. Not just the ruthless beast, but a man who does not fear demonstrating emotions regardless of his intentions. Sitting here, his tears aren’t meant to incite sympathy or to play into the role of a human riddled with weaknesses hidden behind politely detached professionalism. No, these tears are genuine. Shared with Will because Will sees, accepts, and loves him.

Will only wishes he could see what the tears are for. He’s too tired to look, too afraid of what he might encounter. He, too, is only human. Walking through the Inferno, the wounds and burns have only left him wary rather than hardened.

“How’s your stomach?”

Hannibal places a hand over the freshly changed bandages and still won’t answer. They’re lucky the bullet missed all vital organs. Will’s a little more lucky, he supposes, though not by much. The stitches inside his mouth have been removed, but he can’t keep his tongue from prodding at the raised flesh there. On the outside, all that remains is a gauze to keep him from straining the healing wound too much. He hasn’t been able to have anything other than soup.

“Uncomfortable,” Hannibal finally says, straightening up to stretch his back. The tears have stopped. “Rest. There’s still several hours before we reach the next station.”

“I won’t be able to sleep when I know you’re sitting here moping.” Will lifts his eyebrows in amusement when Hannibal gives him a sharp glare. “You’re going to have to try alternate methods of intimidation.”

Hannibal shuts his eyes in what’s equivalent to an exasperated sigh, and Will takes the moment to comb back the growing bangs that have begun falling over his forehead. They’re nowhere near as long as they were before Hannibal surrendered to the FBI.

He immediately tenses, Will’s touch only ever followed by aggression. It’s the base element of their chemistry, touch proceeded by pain and rapture.

But all Will does is comb Hannibal’s hair using his fingers, digging blunt nails into his scalp in an attempt to sooth him. He refuses to take painkillers, opting to leave them in the bag for Will whenever he needs them.

“Not yet,” Hannibal says, breaking the eerily heavy silence. “This conversation can wait.”

It’s the answer to a question Will had asked three days ago in Munich while purchasing train tickets. Better said, the answer to a _series_ of questions. While their silences often speak louder than any word in any language, the freefall they’ve embarked on has Will screaming his demand for answers.

_What do we do now?_

Will labels this an interlude.

“I don’t think either of us will be getting much sleep,” Will confides. He lets his hand fall to Hannibal’s shoulder, pressing his thumb to the coiled muscles and urging them to unwind. “Maybe something to help with that?” He notices the poor word choice when the corner of Hannibal’s mouth quirks up into a tiny smile that speaks volumes of just what he’d like. “Morphine. I meant morphine.”

His laugh is smaller than his smile, and Hannibal gestures towards the bag hanging on the wall across their bunks. “There’s enough to weather you through the day.”

Will casts the bag a glance, his mind drawing an unexpected blank.

It’s been a very long time since he and Hannibal last had sex. He recalls the office and the burning of patient records, the leg-melting pleasure of Hannibal taking him into his mouth. Will remembers how hot his face had gotten when Hannibal asked to be taken over his desk. His words had been soft and pleading, similar to the man sitting beside him now. Back then they had stood on the cusp of betrayal.

Enough conversations with Du Maurier told him that Hannibal had enjoyed his fair share of bedfellows while they traveled through Europe. Yet, his jealousy was never directed towards those faceless people.

She’s paid her due. Time to move on.

“We shouldn’t do anything too strenuous,” Will says, only mildly chastising. The smallest strain would send them unraveling again.

Even with said warning, he can’t help but lean to his side, bumping his forehead to Hannibal’s, suddenly starved for touch. He closes his eyes, a hand still on Hannibal’s shoulder as he breathes and wills his heart to slow its rapid pounding against his chest. 

Another moment to remember.

“Will.”

“If I kiss you, I won’t be able to stop.”

A hand tugs at Will’s hair and his mouth falls open, waiting for the claiming kiss that doesn’t come. “I wouldn’t wish for you to stop.”

“You’re hurt.”

“So are you.”

Will leans closer, their noses touching. Hannibal is looking at him steadily, mouth also open and waiting for Will to take the kiss they want. 

“I’ll be gentle,” Will says, and they laugh at how ridiculous that sounds. “Just lay back, okay? I’ll go down on you and then you can give me a hand and we’re both good.”

Hannibal reaches for the hem of Will’s shirt and tugs it upward, prompting him to remove it. “You’ll be too far away.”

“I’m right here.”

“I’d rather have you on top of me.”

Will sighs at that, heat stirring to life. “When we’re better. We can do that when we’re better.” Standing up from the bunk, Will moves to kneel between his knees in a change of mind. “Careful not to bump your head,” he warns before moving in to press a kiss to the part of Hannibal’s stomach that isn’t bandaged up.

Hannibal lifts his hips for Will to pull down his pajama bottoms, and he’s glad to learn that Hannibal still doesn’t wear underwear to bed. He’s limp and Will smiles up at him, vibrating with nervous energy. It’s been years, but he figures it’s just like riding a bike.

Hands smoothing along Hannibal’s thighs, he uses only his tongue and lips to guide the flaccid cock into his mouth, the size manageable like this. Mildly salty and distinctively Hannibal, Will has missed the intimacy of this act in particular. Or maybe it’s just the person he’s doing it to who has him panting through his nose as he swallows.

Will pulls away, letting the cock messily fall from his mouth.

A brief look at Hannibal shows him with eyes halfway closed, and hands gripping the bedsheets for dear life.

Will wraps his hand around him, pumping and massaging, pulling back foreskin and licking at the head until he’s fully erect. The plump heaviness is a familiar weight he hadn’t expected to miss so fervently.

The second time Will takes him in, he does so with too much enthusiasm and ends up recoiling when his cheek sends a sharp bolt of pain to his brain. He presses his hand to it, but the pressure only adds more to the discomfort. “Shit.”

Hannibal’s hand is quickly pulling his away and prying back the gauze. He inspects the wound with steady fingers, but finds nothing life threatening. “Perhaps this particular activity should wait, too.”

Will snorts when the pain eases and becomes an inconvenient a throb. “Kind of forgot about that. It’s easier when you aren’t stiff.”

Gauze back in place, Hannibal touches the rest of Will’s face. His fingertip dance over his eyelids, cheeks, and down the slopes of his jaw until they’re resting over his wet lips. “I look forward to when you’re healed enough to take me into your mouth again,” he confesses, and the low tone warns Will that whatever is going through Hannibal’s mind is absolutely filthy. “The texture of your cheek is delightful.”

Will can’t bite back the moan that gets out of him, his own cock twitching in his boxers. Add that to the list of things that shouldn’t turn him on. “I bet it is,” he says, because it’s Hannibal and he shouldn't expect differently.

He goes to get him off using his hand, but Hannibal is quick to stop him. “On your feet,” he says, and Will obeys without complaint.

Hannibal pulls him closer by the waistband, and wastes no time on tugging it down along with Will’s underwear. Not all the way, just enough to free his erection.

Will has been on the receiving end of blowjobs for the past three years, but none could ever quite compare to this. Hannibal’s oral fixation translates beautifully, drawing as much enjoyment from the act as Will. He’s fastidious and attentive, licking where needs to be licked and sucking with force that is just right to keep Will on edge.

Hannibal grabs hold of Will’s waist and jerks him closer still, and Will watches his cock slip further inside his scorching hot mouth until lips press flush around his root. The process is maddeningly slow, torturously good, and it takes every ounce of his strength to not fuck Hannibal’s throat.

Will grabs onto the top bunk when Hannibal decides to let him slip out a few inches before taking him back in. He repeats the motion, over and over again, so steadily and composed as he fucks his mouth on Will’s cock. Will watches his cheeks hollow as he sucks, takes in the way his throat shifts, chest greedily taking in air when only the tip rests against his bottom lip.

Will holds on so tightly he fears he’ll splinter the wood. “ _Hannibal_ ,” he grits out, feeling his orgasm about to be sucked right out of him. “Hannibal, _stop_. Not yet.”

His cock slips from Hannibal’s mouth with a slick sound that’s just _obscene_ and Will has to take a break to swallow around the knot in his throat and groin. He shivers while waiting for the waves to recede, until his knees no longer pose the danger of giving out.

Still holding onto the top bunk, Will leans down and kisses him.

Breathily, they swap heated kisses that border on desperation. Too much tongue and teeth, hunger inviting them to take and take until the fire lowers to a simmer. Only then does it soften, worshipful mouths caressing and drinking soft moans and whimpers meant only for the other to hear.

“Do you remember,” Will begins between sensual nips and open mouthed kisses at each other’s jaws, “what you did the first time we fucked in the shower?”

Hannibal closes his eyes and Will returns the earlier gesture of touching his face. No longer a need to commit it to memory. Simply a quiet proclamation of affection.

“Would you like me to do it again?” Hannibal says, leaning into Will’s touch like a big cat.

“We can come together like that. No lube for anything else.” At Hannibal’s smirk, Will playfully smacks the side of his head. “Of course you took the time to bring lube.”

“I had high hopes that we would end up here once again.”

“Hardly surprising that we did,” Will says, nudging at Hannibal’s shoulder and getting him to lay down correctly. 

When he does so, he rummages through the bag and finds a nondescript bottle at the bottom, wedged between a can of shaving cream and shampoo.

He sheds his pants and underwear and throws them on the top bunk as Hannibal finishes removing his own, nudging them to rest at the corner of the mattress. Will climbs onto the bunk and over him, careful not to put his weight where it could cause further damage.

Hannibal fluffs the pillow under his head and shifts until he’s comfortable, and Will can only smile at how average and unsexy it is. It looks real, tangible, as opposed to the rough fucks and angry clutching they had defined their sex to be - pure aesthetic swathed in hatred, obsession, and bloodshed.

“Good?” Will says, kissing his top lip. “If anything feels like it’s about to pop out, let me know.” He straddles Hannibal’s thighs and pops open the lubricant, warming it between his palms before slicking up Hannibal’s cock. He squeeze his fingers until it’s just this side of tight, as is Hannibal’s preference.

Next, Will takes himself in hand but keeps it brief, already too close as is.

He’s careful while crawling up the bed enough to align their cocks, leaning down and propping himself up on a hand so it’s enough to trap and drag them between their soft stomachs. Neither mentions how Hannibal angles his hips high enough to rub against the scar he left on Will, but it feels too good for Will to be against it. He’s also mindful of steering clear from Hannibal’s bandage as they slowly rut against the other.

More lube is applied and Will hisses at how cold it is, but it isn’t enough to distract him.

His hips rock at a steady pace, bearing Hannibal’s restrictions in mind. He eventually takes both cocks in hand and jerks them together, clumsily, panting erratically when Hannibal paws at his bandaged shoulder.

“I recommend doing it now,” Hannibal says, and his voice cuts through a silence only filled with heavy breathing and choked back grunts, nearly startling him.

The waver in his words is enough to tell Will that he’s close, so he gets down to business. “Talk me through it?”

“Mind how far you’re pulling,” he offers, looking down to observe Will pull back his foreskin. “You can apply as much pressure as you wish. I don’t mind.”

Will pours more lube onto Hannibal before aligning tip to tip, absently nodding while focusing on the task. He wets his lips, keeping his eyes on the way Hannibal’s cock twitches at the touch, and pulls the foreskin over both their heads.

The position is awkward to hold, but it’s the easiest on Hannibal’s wound. 

And Will _really_ wants to do this.

He’s done his fair share of experimental things, but nothing has affected him quite as much as this. The first time Hannibal had done so, Will came embarrassingly quick, babbling nonsense into his shoulder.

The sensation is velvet soft and warm, more intimate than anything else they’ve ever physically shared.

“Stay with me, Will.”

“I’m here,” he says, voice giving way to a whisper and a groan. He slides the foreskin back and forth, hold tight enough to be felt but not enough to get them off. He doesn’t want for this to stop. “Fuck, this is as good as I remember it to be.”

Hannibal rakes his nails down Will’s chest, leaving pink lines that aren’t deep enough to bleed. “You may squeeze a bit, please.”

Will does but the pressure doesn’t increase by much. Instead, he quickens his fist, concentration slipping when Hannibal makes a breathy noise that catches at the back of his throat.

He looks up in time to see his head tilt back, skin sweat slicked and throat working around a silent moan. Will feels Hannibal come in his hand, seed hot and trapped as Will keeps the fold of skin pulled over the head of his own cock. It’s enough to knock him over as well.

Hannibal’s mouth is pliant when Will kisses it, parting to welcome him.

Will lowers himself onto his elbows, wincing as his body cools down and reminds him of the stitches that still pull on his shoulder. He’s careful to keep his weight partly off Hannibal, the need for proximity refusing to let him step back and clean up. Hannibal doesn’t mind it. He proves so by touching, allowing his hands to relearn the edges and dips of Will’s body.

“You are as beautiful in your tenderness as you are in your violence,” Hannibal says, but the words are taken from him by Will’s tongue.

“Stop thinking, Hannibal.”

“You ask a great thing.”

“Just for a couple of hours.” Will suckles on his bottom lip, taking it into his mouth and lathering it with attention before releasing. “Until we reach the station, at least. We’ll have a lot to sort out.”

The first of those things is the gold wedding band around his finger, the same one Hannibal is pointedly fingering.

Will gets him to stop doing so with a gentle nudge, and then takes Hannibal’s hand and brings it to his mouth. He kisses his knuckles. “I’m here with you,” he whispers against skin marred by tiny white lines. “Right now, I’m right here, Hannibal.”

Keeping whatever physical discomfort he might feel perfectly hidden, Hannibal turns them so they’re both on their side. The bunk is small so they huddle closer together, chest to chest, Hannibal’s head tucked under Will’s chin. The arms that cling to him are like a vice but Will minds very little, soothingly petting the back of Hannibal’s head.

The tears return at some point, hidden within the safety of night and Will’s neck.

Underneath them the train goes on, undisturbed by the quiet and not so quiet exchange they share. Yet another moment, another memory, and Will figures that if he were to hit the water once more, this would be the most peaceful way to go.

With Hannibal finally surrendering to sleep in his arms, Will patiently waits for the clock to start running again. Maybe, this time, turning it back will no longer be required. The path ahead might as well be just like their union: _endless._

**Author's Note:**

> [celestialparadigm@tumblr](http://celestialparadigm.tumblr.com/)


End file.
